


I'll Follow the Rain

by HoshiNagaiki



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-21
Updated: 2011-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:24:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoshiNagaiki/pseuds/HoshiNagaiki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paul and John learn about the wonders of precipitation. Friendship fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Follow the Rain

Paul McCartney had escaped. With his keen maneuvers and winning charm, he escaped the rain. Today, the sporadic London showers had almost won, but Paul had memorized the signs: the cool wind, the smell of the sea, etc. Now, because of his new perception, the Beatle would never be caught in any form of precipitation that might damage his perfect mop-topped hair; from torrential hurricane to light drizzle, Paul McCartney had an escape route for it.

When he had initially smelled the damp concrete and noticed the rapidly progressing tufts of black clouds, Paul had dashed into Abbey Road Studios which had been “conveniently” around the corner of where he had chosen to walk that early morning. It may seem a bit odd for a member of the hugely successful pop group, the Beatles, to be strolling casually around London—most people have the impression that he has ‘people’ to do that for him—but Paul McCartney had good reasoning. Walking relieved stress, and lately, he’d been under a lot of stress. None of the other Beatles particularly enjoyed working on the albums anymore, and Paul tried not to be confrontational about this. However, when they had last met in the studio, Paul had lost his temper when John had showed up three hours late and subsequently continued to goof around. A few punches may or may not have been thrown, but after that incident, George Martin had ordered them to take a week’s vacation to cool off.

When Paul ran into Abbey Road Studios, he noticed that the whole studio had been closed for the day; however, the doorknob twisted open without nuisance. Though peculiar, Paul ignored the building’s obvious susceptibility to breaking and entering, for as the successive clack of the shutting door rang through his ears, his troubles evaporated into the air where they joined the forthcoming precipitation.

He had escaped the nightmarish rain and saved his hair! Now, Paul just needed a preoccupation for a couple of hours while the storm progressed through the city and left, in its wake, another sunny day. With that optimistic mission planted in his mind, he stumbled through the dim studio. The gloomy rain clouds had formed a blockade around the sun, allowing limited light into his temporary shelter and causing Paul’s quest for entertainment to be that much more difficult. As he commenced his journey, he tripped on a bundle of wires and fell butt-first on the cool flooring. With curses and a painful standing up, Paul preceded to stub both his big toes and bump into the side of a large box.

After overcoming these obstacles with little more than colorful language and a few unnecessary bangs, Paul finally reached his destination: the light switch! He flipped it on with one hand and rubbed his aching arse with the other. With visibility now at optimum standards, Paul realized that his stumbles and lapses of poise had resulted in a slightly—disorganized studio. Boxes and instruments lay abandoned on the floor; papers had floated to the ground in what Paul perceived as the studio’s attempts to trip him once again. Everything had become a jumbled mess.

Of course, neither Paul nor anyone else could prove that he had even contributed to this untidy accumulation of equipment. For all Paul knew, the studio had been in this state before he had even caught the dreadful whiff of approaching rain. Perhaps, someone had purposefully placed these items in this arrangement for—acoustic reasons. The thought seemed outlandish, but it allowed Paul enough consolation to carefully—in fear of the repetition of prior mishaps—cross the studio to the beloved piano.

Warily arranging himself into a position that did not pain any of his soon-to-be bruises, he sat on the piano’s stool and breathed in the scent of the keys, the scent of music. Then, just like that, the song possessed him.

“One day you’ll look to see I’ve gone, for tomorrow may rain so I’ll follow the sun.” His eyes closed as he sang, but his fingers did not halt in their deft dance with the notes. The song had been one from his teenage years, but Paul had never lost his love for it. Almost simple and always enchanting, “Someday you’ll know I was the one, but tomorrow may rain so I’ll follow the sun—”

“Bravo, Paulie, bravo!” interjected the mischievous yet painfully frank voice of the reason for his misadventure.

Blinking as if a bright light had just shown in his eyes, the younger man peered at the figure of John Lennon. As the musical aura temporarily fled his body, he gazed at his once friend, now co-worker. Paul noticed that John sported rumpled clothes that had the appearance of being worn multiple days and the thick-framed glasses he seldom used. His hair stuck up in random, tangled places and since they had last seen each other a week ago, John had become skinnier, almost to the same size of his teenage self. “John? Why are you here?”

In nonchalance, John shrugged and paced the distance between them. He motioned for Paul to scoot over, and once he did, John sat next to him. He tapped a few of the keys in a mindless tune and said, “When the rain falls, they run and hide their heads.”

Now, that John was merely a few inches away from him, Paul could better identify John’s languidness. Dark circles drooped from beneath his eyes and onto his pale complexion. With a breathless sigh, John’s hands dropped from the piano, and his eyes turned to meet Paul’s. They had known each other so well at the band’s beginning, and now, half a decade later, here it was, coolly glaring at them, their dwindling friendship.

Then, John smiled a kooky, pursed grin, and crossed his eyes. A laugh erupted in Paul, initially as a controlled giggle but concluding in a loud boom as John joined him. All Paul’s worries about the band, the albums, John, fled the back of his mind. For the minutes they laughed, they were as they had been when they had first met, carefree and jovial. They continued their chuckling, not wanting the rare blissful moment to end; Paul’s hands unconsciously smacked onto the keys with a melodic roar, and tiny tears formed at the edges of John’s eyes. The two band mates gasped for breath and clutched their stomachs.

Once they regained their composure, John wistfully remarked, “Some days, I wish I could follow the sun.”

Paul didn’t know how to respond to this. In fact, the way John had spoken the words—with an upward glance and a pensive tenor—he doubted that John had meant it for his ears.Instead of a proper response, Paul returned to his solemn demeanor and repeated his question from earlier, “Why are you here, John?”

John faced his fellow songwriter and eyed him wearily as if he were trying to determine something but lethargy prevented him from fulfilling the task. When he answered, he answered in a monotone, “Needed time to think.”

“So, you came here? You don’t even come here when you’re supposed to.”

“A place of pure perception—it’s quiet.” John bit his lip and gazed up once again. “It was quiet. That is until someone showed up and made a ruckus of things.” He smiled at Paul and said, “So, why are you here? Escaping your own rain?”

“Literally.”

Although somewhat ashamed of the ridiculousness of his intentions in comparison to John’s, the thought of lying didn’t enter Paul’s mind. Maybe before, when he and John had been in constant battle for the band’s leadership, he would have lied to seem more masculine or cool, but today, peacefulness filled their air.

“Can you hear the rain?” John suddenly questioned. His eyes had dispersed of their previous fatigue and renewed with an alacrity Paul had known since back in the days of The Quarrymen. Every time Paul glanced at John while they performed their music, he had the same vitality in his eyes. “Can you hear it, Paul?”  
In concentration, the blackness of Paul’s eyelids covered his sight, and he listened. The pattering of the drops sent shivers across his body and into the tips of his stubbed big toes. Just the thought of the freezing wetness drenching him and filing into his every pore cooled his skin.  
An impatient tug at his arm broke this horrific thought train. Now standing beside him, John tried to rip Paul’s arm away from the rest of his body as he said, “Let’s go, McCartney!”  
Paul stood up and let John drag him to the doors of Abbey Road. He was fully aware of what John planned to do and fully aware that stopping John from acting on his whim was impossible. So, as John grasped the door’s handle and a cold breeze snaked towards them from the cracks of the door, Paul braced himself.  
“If we don’t face the rain, Macca, we might as well be dead.”

In one swift motion, John pulled the door open. The wind hit their faces as hard as if it had punched them, nearly knocking Paul onto his arse again. The liquid ice beat at a tremendous pace, forming a puddle that stretched at least three feet in diameter into Abbey Road Studios.

Both men sauntered into the feral storm. They tugged the door closed behind them and stood on the doorsteps. Already they had been soaked by the brumal rainwater, and Paul didn’t know how much more he could take. His teeth clattered together in a loud chatter that the rain out-noised with its vociferous cries of thunder, and his body shook violently in a futile attempt to warm itself.

Slowly, Paul glanced to the person who had forced him into this calamity. John Lennon stared at the constant battering that the rain compelled on its own alliance of water, a puddle. His glasses must have been dribbling with stray water droplets, but his gaze never turned from the splashing mass of water that had found a home on the rough gravel. He seemed so focused on that common phenomena the freezing rain didn’t bother him.

Noticing Paul’s attention on him, John faced his companion and said, “It’s just a state of mind.”

Then, he bounded from the stairs and into the full front of the storm’s ferocity. His arms spread out, and eyes watching the sky, he twirled around and around like a child.

Paul merely watched the older man spin, and as John laughed at his own silliness, Paul could feel his spirits lightening. He stopped noticing the endless pummel of freezing drops against his head and the chilly wind’s attempts to blow him away. Instead, he observed John’s renewal; his worries seemed to wash away as he faced the rain.  
~  
“What do you mean you can’t sing today?” Brian Epstein demanded the next day at Abbey Road Studios. All four Beatles coughed awkwardly to hold in their snickers; Brian’s face had taken on the resemblance of a giant red tomato.  
George Martin, who knew exactly what the coughs were meant to disguise, glared. He had had to phone Brian over to report this sudden twist and blatant disrespect of The Schedule. Brian, as usual, managed the situation with severe chastisement through yelling. The boys always found it somewhat amusing.  
John opened his mouth to speak, and a scraggly whisper of a noise emerged, “How do you expect me to sing with this bleedin’ stub of a voice, Eppy?”

In a similar voice, Paul apologized, “Sorry, Brian.”

“Why is it that both of you have this ailment?” Brian asked, glancing from one to the other.

“We were in the rain yesterday.”

Brian glared at John. Since Paul’s record was mostly clean, Brian considered John the instigator in the whole incident. “And, why would you do any idiotic thing like that?”

John pondered this question for a moment, and as he spoke, he eyed Paul, “It’s easy to follow the sun; sometimes, you should follow the rain.”


End file.
